


arabesque

by seventhswan



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Ballet, Christmas, Disabled Character, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Non-Binary Frisk, Post-Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:32:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5259242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhswan/pseuds/seventhswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p> When she was little, Toriel wanted to be a ballerina. When she was very little. (<i>Don’t laugh. It’s silly – it seems so silly now, but – don’t laugh</i>).</p>
  <p>There weren’t any ballerinas in the underground – they were a thing in old books that came down from the human world, and they were magic to her. She knew monsters who could breathe fire, monsters whose touch turned things to ice, but those girls in those floofy pink skirts, their delicate ankles, their perfectly bent wrists… They were foreign and lovely. It didn’t matter that the covers of the books were torn and the illustrations smeared from their travels, those girls shone out, perfect and neat and beautiful and so <i>small</i>.</p>
  <p>But then she grew up and realised there were no ballerinas who looked like her, and that she had two left feet besides.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	arabesque

**Author's Note:**

> Frisk in this story is physically mute but not deaf/HOH (I imagine due to permanent nerve damage to the larynx/vocal folds during childhood surgery or something similar) so uses ASL. Sans and Toriel are fluent in ASL here, and the others vary in competence level. Sans often uses sign to speak with Frisk even though technically this is not necessary, as a kind of bonding/”secret code” thing between them. ASL sections are in **bold**. If there are any issues with how I’ve written Frisk in this situation, please don’t hesitate to let me know!
> 
> Warning for minor exploration of body image issues.

**Toriel**

When she was little, Toriel wanted to be a ballerina. When she was very little. ( _Don’t laugh. It’s silly – it seems so silly now, but – don’t laugh_ ).

There weren’t any ballerinas in the underground – they were a thing in old books that came down from the human world, and they were magic to her. She knew monsters who could breathe fire, monsters whose touch turned things to ice, but those girls in those floofy pink skirts, their delicate ankles, their perfectly bent wrists… They were foreign and lovely and magic. It didn’t matter that the covers of the books were torn and the illustrations smeared from their travels, those girls shone out, perfect and neat and beautiful and so _small_.

But then she grew up and realised there were no ballerinas who looked like her, and that she had two left feet besides (her mother glued a broken vase back together every week, victim of Toriel’s stumbling pirouettes down the hallway of their home), and she got a new dream. And it’s wonderful, teaching the children, and she barely thinks of dancing at all anymore.

But sometimes – 

(There’s a big billboard up in town, advertising a touring production of The Nutcracker. She gets stopped at the stoplight on the way to school every morning, just underneath it, and she stares up at the perfect girl with her head bent demurely, pearls threaded through her hair, the straight-nosed man holding her up above his head like she’s something precious. She grips the wheel a little. Just to see it – just to see… It would be enough. It would be a lot).

|

**Sans**

Sans picks up Frisk from school on Fridays because he’s on an earlier shift and Tori has an after-school meeting. Sometimes they go for ice-cream or for a walk in the park or to see Alphys and Undyne; other days (like today) Frisk produces a shopping list from Tori and they run errands. Strangely, those days are no less fun than any others; Frisk has this innate gift of making any outing enjoyable.

Today’s list sends them to the mall. Tori has written a little apology at the bottom for sending them into the soulless hell that is a commercial shopping space in December (okay, Sans is paraphrasing here, but still) and signed it with a little sad face. 

The mall is busy enough that Sans walks along with a firm hold on Frisk’s hand for fear of losing them in the crush. Everything is a blur of red and gold lights, shining garlands, fake snow, cinnamon and gingerbread scent wafting from the storefronts… If it wasn’t so frantic it would be quite pretty. Frisk stares around at all the decorations with a rapt expression, and that makes it almost worth it to battle along in the scrum of other shoppers.

“What do you want for Christmas, kid?” Sans asks Frisk as they pass a toy store, forgoing sign as it’s so awkward when holding hands (and if they stop here they’ll be like a rock thrown into a people-stream). Frisk gets a thoughtful look on their face and wanders along for another few steps. Sans, used to this, waits peaceably, managing to steer them towards the relative shelter of a store window-recess. When the answer comes to Frisk they stop dead, face lighting up.

 **There’s a B-A-L-L-E-T coming to town,** they sign quickly, slipping their hand out of Sans’. **I’d like to go.**

Sans blinks, taken aback. It’s not… It’s not _entirely_ out of the range of possibilities for Frisk, who enjoys mud and manicures and ponies and robots with equal fervor, but it seems like kind of a… stuffy thing for a kid to want to do. Unless he’s got the wrong end of the stick about what ballet is, which is completely possible.

 **B-A-L-L-E-T?** he signs carefully. **People leaping around looking very serious and music with no words?**

Frisk nods earnestly, tucking their hair behind their ears and looking away.

 **Toriel wants to go,** they sign. **But she’d probably think nobody wants to go with her and she never asks for anything anyway.**

Frisk rolls their eyes, puffing their cheeks out. **If you ask her what she wants she’ll say a new apron or something boring like that, so don’t even ask her, Sans**.

Sans grins. He’s already resolved not to ask Tori anything. He’s gone ahead and picked out a completely impractical but beautiful (and probably too expensive to not completely give himself away) necklace. Tori is going to scold him for a week when she sees it, but he also knows that as much as she protests that sparkly, girly things don’t suit her, she also loves them. He’s been looking forward to seeing the look on her face.

 **Wasn’t gonna, kid,** he signs. His mind is whirring. He herds Frisk more closely against the store window, lifting an apologetic hand at a harried-looking dad with a twin under each arm who’s trying to get past. **Tori wants to go to the B-A-L-L-E-T, huh?**

 **We pass the big billboard in town every morning,** Frisk explains. **She looks up at it and anything I say to her she just answers with U-H-H-U-H.**

Frisk suddenly looks fierce in a way that reminds Sans irresistibly of Undyne.

 **She really wants to go, so that’s what I want! More than anything,** they sign, their expression softening. **I want Toriel to be happy.**

So does Sans. 

**Alright,** Sans says. **I’ll get Tori the B-A-L-L-E-T for Christmas. Now, squirt, isn’t there anything _you_ want? Just for you?**

 **No,** Frisk signs stubbornly, shaking their head, but Sans sees their gaze slide over to Santa’s brightly-colored grotto for a second before they snap it back. The grotto is a big old confection of a thing in the centre of the mall, all done up to look like (in Sans’ opinion) the unholy meld of the gingerbread house of a cannibalistic fairytale witch and a weird ski-lodge. The grotto’s sign proclaims that on Fridays and Saturdays they even have a real reindeer you can pet, which seems like a nightmare to Sans in the middle of a mall, but probably something a grade-schooler would go crazy for, even one as cool as Frisk. There’s a lot of excited squealing coming from the depths of the grotto that seems to attest to this.

 **If you won’t tell me,** Sans signs playfully, **will you tell Santa Claus?**

Frisk blushes and looks away, caught, and tries to sign a million protests about how **I’m too big, Sans** and **you don’t think it’s stupid?** and **there’ll be a huge line, and you’ll have to -**

(Frisk talks about it for a week after. **Did you know reindeer antlers are fuzzy, Undyne?** **Papyrus, Santa signed my name!**

Sans springs the extra five dollars for a picture of Frisk on Santa’s lap. Tori puts it in pride of place above the fire in the lounge, and says _thank you_ in this soft way that Sans really doesn’t know how to deal with, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and just – doesn’t.)

|

Sans considers for a hot second getting a pair of tickets – so, the ballet, just him and Tori (Papyrus could watch Frisk, and Undyne could watch Papyrus) – but he knows that what Tori loves more than anything is her family. 

Eight tickets to the ballet don’t come cheap, but it’s still not as much as the necklace (good thing he kept the receipt). The theatre even gives him a group discount. Plus, it appeals to the lazybones in him – that’s all of his Christmas shopping done in one fell swoop. Frisk is a genius.

|

The gift exchange is on Christmas Eve, with Tori’s lounge full of their nearest and dearest. Christmas Day itself will see the house packed beyond reasonable capacity, full of the Royal Guard and Papyrus’ quilting circle and Undyne’s biker buddies and Catty and Bratty and everyone, but for tonight it’s just the family. Both days are going to be nice, Sans thinks; just different.

Frisk is nodding off on Tori’s lap, belly full of pie. Undyne, as designated fire chief, is piling the fire with more logs, watched by a drowsy but admiring Alphys. Pap’s head is lolling onto Mettaton’s shoulder, and Napstablook has retired to lie flat on the floor to digest the enormous meal Tori made, mumbling something about how they may never get up again, and the floor is where such a greedy mess belongs. The firelight is reflected back by the shiny paper covering the presents piled under the tree, and the whole room looks as though it’s glowing.

“Presents!” Undyne says decisively, flinging herself back onto the couch next to Alphys. “Bring them on!”

Pap sits straight up and looks appealing at Tori, who laughs under her breath.

“Presents, dear one,” she murmurs, gently nudging Frisk awake and stroking their hair. Frisk looks up at her, sleepy at the edges, and gives a sunny smile.

It quickly escalates into a riot as Mettaton, Pap and Undyne spring to attention and start crawling around under the tree, searching for tags, calling names and tossing presents to waiting recipients. Sans keeps his eyes on Tori and Frisk the whole time, not sure who he wants to watch more. 

Tori gets kitchen equipment and a book of knitting patterns and a quilt stitched with a collage of Tori and Frisk together (from Pap), while Frisk gets a princess pony playset and a karate outfit (from Undyne), as well as a chemistry set (from Alphys) and a Magic 8 ball, which Sans just _knows_ is going to be the chief entertainment at dinner tomorrow. 

They’re both wonderful to watch, with Frisk’s excited signing getting so fast that Tori has to translate, and they have this genuine look of delight and surprise on their face the whole time, but Tori… Tori’s expression is so fragile, like it might cave at any minute and turn to tears, like she understands that a well-chosen present is a heart in a box. _I love you enough to spend time thinking about you, and what you love, and to give up a piece of my time to look for something to try to make you happy._

She saves every single piece of wrapping paper, smoothing out the crinkles and folding it carefully. When she ties a discarded piece of ribbon into Frisk’s hair it makes Frisk’s little face shine, pleased. They raise a careful hand to touch it.

Eventually, everyone’s left holding the envelope that is Sans’ gift. When Tori darts a curious look at him, he looks away.

“These better not be coupons, lazybones,” Undyne says, turning the envelope over in her hands and raising an eyebrow.

Sans clears his throat and hopes it isn’t too audible.

“Not coupons,” he promises.

There’s the sound of seven envelopes being ripped into, and then there’s no sound at all for a few seconds while most people in the room blink at their gift in confusion.

Then Frisk launches themselves at Sans in a blur of motion, falling into his lap and hugging him tightly around the shoulders. Sans grabs onto them so they won’t fall off the couch.

“Oh, Sans,” Tori says finally. Her voice is so small and overwhelmed. Sans really hopes she doesn’t cry, because that was kind of the opposite of his whole intention with this. 

The ticket looks bizarrely little in her big hands. When she looks up at him, this time he doesn’t avoid her eyes.

“You really shouldn’t have,” she says, but it doesn’t come out as rebuking as he thinks she means it to be. There’s a little sag in the middle, as though it is the token protest offered by a child who desperately wants to take an offered chocolate, but is aware they’ve already had one. _It’s okay, you keep it, I don’t need it. I don’t -_

Sans really shouldn’t have. He knows that. Undyne is already fixing him with a very pointed gaze; he can feel it boring a hole in the back of his skull.

“Come on,” Sans says, shrugging, studiedly languid and unaffected. “How do you know I wasn’t just being totally selfish and got you all a present _I_ wanted? Guys in tights running around, maybe that’s my secret passion.”

Undyne rolls her eyes and bodily shoves him, hard enough that he and Frisk almost fall off the couch. Tori’s eyebrows come down over her eyes like she’s about to say something.

“I actually can’t wait!” Alphys pipes up, startling everyone and obviously derailing Toriel’s train of thought. “The costumes are going to be so amazing!”

“Oh yes, and the dancing!” Mettaton gasps, leaning over to grab Alphys’ hand in passionate excitement. “It’s going to be just _exquisite_! I am so looking forward to basking in the genius of these artists of movement!”

“These dancers have muscles like you wouldn’t believe,” Undyne says, grinning and flexing her bicep. “So there’ll be plenty for me to enjoy!”

“…do you think… there’ll be… a full orchestra…” Napstablook asks, floating above the floor hopefully, coaxed out of their digestion despair. “i’ve never heard a live orchestra…. i think i would like that…”

Tori laughs, almost to herself.

“Well, that settles it then, I suppose,” she says. She’s looking thoughtfully down at her ticket and smiling a completely unguarded smile; the smile of being permitted to take a second chocolate and having it taste better than the first.

 **You should get a new dress for it!** Frisk signs, clambering back onto Tori’s lap. Tori holds her arms open to receive them, and laughs and laughs. Sans doesn’t have a camera to hand, but he takes a picture all the same – just a little one, in his head, to remember.

|

**Toriel**

The ballet is a few days after Christmas, just before the New Year. Toriel feels a little silly when Frisk, Alphys and Undyne bully her into a pair of heels, saying fretfully _oh, but won’t that just make me too tall?_ and getting a trio of glares in return, as well as Undyne’s chiding voice saying _you’re tall and strong and great, Toriel! Show it off!_

She thinks the dress is too much, too, but Frisk picked it out and she hates to disappoint her little one. It’s just so… bright, and there are spangles at the neckline. She hasn’t worn something like this since – well, it’s been a terribly long time. She tries very hard to believe Mettaton when he tells her that it brings out her eyes and suits her coloring so well.

Papyrus and Sans look more dapper than she’s ever seen them, in suits and bowties (though Sans’ is lying loose and untied around his neck, unsurprisingly). Frisk, too, is in a suit and bowtie, and looks so darling that Toriel can’t help making them pose for photographs. Then she wants a photograph of Frisk and the two brothers, and then Alphys and Undyne, and then Mettaton goofing around with Papyrus, and Napstablook in their formal hat, and then it’s getting so late that Undyne says if they don’t go get in Betsey _right now_ they’re going to miss the show. 

The theatre is huge and old and beautiful, all red velvet curtains and frescoes on the ceiling of golden cherubs in endless blue skies. Toriel can’t help but stop in her tracks and stare around herself, holding up traffic in the aisle until Sans, standing at her shoulder, says softly, _Tori -_

She starts again all in a fluster, embarrassed and nearly tripping over her feet in her haste to get moving, but relaxes when Frisk touches a reassuring hand to her elbow.

As they take their seats, the sight of the orchestra sends Napstablook into paroxysms of joy (they vibrate a little in midair, which for them is the same thing). Alphys and Undyne buy Toriel a program before she can realize what they’re doing, and while they wait for the curtain to come up, they read out facts about the company and the show.

The ballet is – it’s somehow exactly what she used to dream about, and better than that. It’s dazzling and fast paced and wonderful, and the music flows in through her ribs to take up residence in her chest, humming straight through her. She tracks the dancers’ every movement with her eyes, trying to commit it all to memory, to remember exactly how she feels right this second.

It’s strange, because The Nutcracker isn’t a sad ballet, and yet she goes through all the tissues she stuffed into her bag just in case. The tears are coming from a place she can’t reach, a secret neglected corner of herself. It’s such a complicated thing – she’s crying for the memory of herself, of little Toriel dreaming with books about ballerinas stuffed under her pillow, crying for how she will never be that child again. 

At the same time she’s crying for the simple joy of how she has grown up to have so much more – a family to love and take care of, who love her, who’ve done this thing for her. She’s also crying just because she’s looking at something beautiful, moved at the idea that such things exist in the world – little pockets of beauty untouched by everything else.

On her left, Sans touches the tip of his index finger to the vulnerable inside of her wrist where it lies, face up, on the armrest between them. The touch is so brief she wonders if she has imagined it. When the second firmer touch comes, that of him pressing another tissue into her hand, it makes that fleeting one seem even more illusory.

|

Toriel trails the others a little on the way back to Betsey after the show. They’re chatting about their favorite bits, Napstablook rhapsodizing over how amazing it was to lie in their seat with their eyes closed and just let the music wash over them, Undyne saying wistfully that she wishes she could know the male lead dancer’s gym routine, Papyrus saying he’s going to put a square based on the show into his latest quilting project.

It’s way past Frisk’s bedtime, so Toriel is carrying them. It’s so incongruous with her heels and her spangly dress that it makes her smile – she’s still herself, underneath it all. She’s always herself, deep down.

Sans is a silent presence at her shoulder, hovering ready to give her a hand carrying Frisk if she needs it. The companionable quiet lets her think, turn the evening over in her head.

It was a selfish thing, to let Sans do this, to have so much money spent just on herself. The others seem to each have enjoyed the evening too, in their own ways, but Toriel knows this was really all for her. It’s selfish, but it feels… It feels sort of good, even still.

“Thank you,” Toriel tells Sans, because she’s already said it, but it can stand to be said again.

“I wanted to,” Sans says, not loud enough to wake Frisk, or for any of the others to hear. He doesn’t look at her, just keeps walking along with his hands in his pockets, his voice light as though he’s talking about something no more serious than the weather. “You said I shouldn’t have, but… I wanted to. You know that, right?”

She does know. It’s a thing she can’t quite puzzle out or tease apart; she can’t pull out all the little threads and line them up and give them labels. It’s a knowledge that lives in that secret corner of herself, in the complicated place with the memory of herself, so small, and the tears that come in the face of beautiful things. But she can see the shape of it when she concentrates. She can see what it will grow into.

( _Me, too,_ she’ll say then, when it bends its head and steps out into the light. _Me too_. It’s not the time yet, but it might be, soon).


End file.
